


Delicious Golden Rods

by T H Dray (thdray)



Category: Untitled Goose Game (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thdray/pseuds/T%20H%20Dray
Summary: "After my pond weed feast, I am satiated. But that matters not. I must have them. I must have the delicious golden rods."





	Delicious Golden Rods

It is a beautiful day to be a goose.

Clouds scud across a blue sky. The sun is high and warms my white feathers. A light breeze ripples the water. I bob up and down, up and down. Gulls wheel and keen overhead.

I do not much care for their tone. Ever do gulls seek to land here on our lake. They are greedy thieves who would snatch food from the beaks of hatchlings. But I am Goose: leader of all geese of this lake, scourge of bald groundskeepers, and infamous avian television personality. I lift my head and honk in warning. “Honk,” I say. “Do not land here, gulls.”

The gulls circle but do not land. I am victorious.

We glide in formation across the lake. Fair weather has coaxed delicious pond weed into bloom. I hurry towards a patch and gobble it up with relish before my companions can stretch their necks to best me.

But wait... I hear a sound upon the cusp of audibility. A dry, crackling, familiar sound.

I turn my neck and spy the source. Upon the narrow spit of sandy shore, a small human dawdles. In its stubby sensory appendages - which are ugly to my sight and wriggle like worms - it clutches a white paper bag. I do not need a canine sense of smell to know what that bag holds.

Salt. Fat. Grease.

Delicious golden rods.

After my pondweed feast, I am satiated. But that matters not. I must have them. I must have the delicious golden rods.

Near me, Swan spies my prize. Swan, too, lives here on this lake with her mate and cygnets. I do not like Swan. She is an overgrown brute.

“Honk!” I hiss a warning. “No, Swan! My rods!”

Swan ignores me, as she always does. But at that moment, three of my flock descend upon Swan. They knot in a tussle over who will claim the rods. They peck and hiss and gabble. 

In the tumult, I speed away, with the same stealth I mustered when I stole jangling keys from a human’s belt. 

I will claim the delicious, golden rods.

I shoot across the water like a pike after hatchlings, make a beeline for where the small human toddles on the shore. Its adults are distracted. No meddlesome dogs lurk nearby. 

It is time. 

I hit land, shake myself dry from beak-tip to tail and advance.

Slap, slap, slap, slap. My webbed feet tread sand. I raise my muscular neck, turn my head and regard the small human with a livid blue eye.

“HONK!” I say. I declare my challenge. Surrender your delicious golden rods.

But the small human chirrups and gurgles at me. A weak, human sound. I am a goose. We do not like the weak. I advance, head bent low to the ground, wings splayed, signalling my intent.

The small human gestures at me and bares its teeth: a row of small, stumpy bone-spurs that could not break wet bread. Anger flares in my feathered breast. How dare this small human defy me, the goose who broke a town? I open my beak, bare my own teeth - my cartilaginous tomia - and spiked tongue.

  
  


A hiss escapes my serpentine throat. The small human’s adults turn, mark my stance, mark my majesty, mark my threat. They shout, run towards me, waving their gangling, human limbs. But it is too late.

THOK, THOK, THOK, my wings strike the small human with a cudgel’s blunt force. It squeals, attempts to flee with my prize in hand. But I am clever. I see through its plan and ready the fang-sharp tip of my beak.

PECK, PECK, PECK. I strike once at tender ankle, twice, three times. Every panicked wail makes my valiant goose-heart sing. Next I pinch its baggy, blue skin and grip tight. 

In its panic, the small human stumbles, and drops my prize. The bag falls; hits wet sand with a thud. I seize upon it, tear open the flimsy paper with stabs of my beak.

The golden rods spill out. There are many. Enough for a feast. I devour one on the spot. Then another. So delicious. So hot and crisp and soft and salty.

Lusty with pride, I preen and strut and shriek. The humans retreat to their metal shell on wheels. 

I have won. 

My flock must know I am the victor. I throw back my head and ululate wildly. My flock respond. They take to the air with a thunderous rattle, make great splashes as they land. A cacophony of querulous calls resounds.

“HONK? HONK? DELICIOUS FOOD?” they demand.

“HONK!” I cry. “The most delicious! For today, we feast on golden rods.”

And as we feast, clouds scud across a blue sky. The sun is high and warms my white feathers. My beak is slicked with grease. 

I am content.

It is a beautiful day to be a goose.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Is Just To Honk](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861717) by [Ruth EJ Booth (RuthEJBooth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuthEJBooth/pseuds/Ruth%20EJ%20Booth)


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